She loves me not. He sighed, tossed the bare branch aside and went over to his own horse, a new and spirited dark dun stallion who, yesterday, had gashed his fetlock. With an hour or so to spare while Edward attended his toilet, Harold thought he might as well tend it. As good a way as any to pass this first half of the morning.
The Welsh problem had come to a head in June. When the Bishop of Hereford had died, he had been replaced by Leofgar, a man devoted to God but also a capable warrior. Many disapproved of his habit of wearing a moustache when it was generally accepted that clerics went clean-shaven, but for the nervous population of Hereford he appeared the ideal choice. A pity that his enthusiasm won the better of his judgement. Eleven weeks after his consecration, he led an army impetuously into Wales. Outnumbered, he and his men had been annihilated at Glasbury on Wye.
Campaigning against these damned Welsh provoked one disaster after another. Edward had not the treasury, or the men, to waste on pointless campaigns. Settlement was the only alternative.
Truce with Ælfgar was simple to conclude, for his father was mortally ill. Soon, another earl would be required for Mercia and the honour, unusually premature, was offered to Ælfgar. For now he was to have Anglia returned to him, Harold’s brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine, being willing temporarily to step down from their award of joint custodianship, given them at Ælfgar’s exile until the vacancy became available again. Gruffydd, too, could see the sense of accepting the offer of border lands and estates without the need to fight for them. Of course, he would renege on the agreement at some time or another, but such were peace treaties: give a little, take a little; smile and offer pleasantries; ignore what would happen a few more miles down the track. If peace could be claimed for a month or a year then something had been achieved. The problem came with the petty pride of a prince and a king, neither of whom would give ground. One of them had to step on to the ferry and go to the other to exchange the embrace of peace. Both of them were arguing that the other ought to be the one to cross.
Edward had decided to appear at his best when Gruffydd disembarked from the ferry on to this, the English side of the Severn. His earls agreed that trimming beards or shaving, having a haircut and wearing of fine apparel was indeed suitable, but going to the extent of bathing, even given that the weather was pleasantly hot, seemed a little excessive. Not that Harold was averse to submerging himself in a tub of hot water, but he preferred to do so within doors and preferably with Edyth there to scrub his back and share in the additional intimate delights. To bathe in a tub in a tent, with tepid water, did not seem worthwhile.
Harold had named the horse Beowulf, after the warrior of the saga. He stood just below fourteen and a half hands with a deep chest, a bold eye, quick intelligence and great stamina and speed: all the best characteristics of Harold’s Wessex stud. Stroking the horse’s velvet-soft muzzle, Harold fed him a titbit of a stale bread crust and picked up the injured hoof. Already the cut was scabbed over; it would be healed in no time. Satisfied, Harold turned to make his way back to the royal tent and saw a young woman leaning with casual curiosity against the trunk of an ash tree.
“He is a fine stallion,” she said boldly, indicating the horse. “I would wager he has Welsh blood in him?”
Harold walked casually towards her, suddenly recognising her. “And how,” he asked with a trickle of amusement, “would you know of the breeding of ponies, and the characteristics of the Welsh breed in particular? Do they teach such things to the daughters of English exiles, then, within Gruffydd’s court?”
Ælfgar’s daughter, Alditha, pushed herself from the tree. She was slender and tall, only a few inches shorter than Harold, with eyes as dark as a well’s deep pool. She was fifteen years of age, balanced on the verge of womanhood.
“Prince Gruffydd had no need to teach me,” she retorted with a toss of her black hair, the two braids, each as thick as Harold’s wrist, bouncing against her shoulders and maturing breasts. The gesture reminded Harold of his stallion: alert and impatient. Beautiful.
She had emphasised the word prince, giving the lord of Wales his correct title, highlighting Harold’s lack of respect.
“I know of Welsh ponies from my mother. I have had such ponies for my own since before I could walk.” She tossed her head again and went to Beowulf, making her presence known by offering her hand for him to scent before touching him.
“He has the distinct dish to his face, a bold eye and a broad forehead, with small, well-set ears.” She cupped her hand around one to prove her point, only the tip protruding from her lightly clasped fist. “A pony ought not resemble a mule. His neck ought to be of good length, the shoulder sloping to a good wither. Your stallion can carry weight over long distances, but with it, he is agile and light-footed.” She ran her hand to his knee, indicating the strong joint, the flat bone. Then she cocked her head to one side to look at Earl Harold. “Well?”
Harold inclined his head. “He has half-Welsh blood in him, aye. His mother came from the mountains.” He raised one eyebrow, indicating the land across the river. “As did yours.”
Alditha returned Harold’s assessing look boldly. He knew her breeding as well as he did that of the horse. “My mother was the daughter of Iago ap Idwal, son of the line of Hywel Dda and Rhodri Mawr, She died when I was a child of ten years old.”
“Then you ought not have liking for Gruffydd. It was he who murdered your grandfather and took the title of prince from the dynasty of Gwynedd for himself, yet your father, her husband, would rather pledge his loyalty to the Welsh than those of us of his own kind?”
“I have no liking for Gruffydd, but he is at least a man who keeps his word. Unlike the English King.”
Harold laughed outright, head back, hands going to his hips. “Forgive me,” he said, spluttering, “but the innocence of the naïve is refreshing. Gruffydd? A man of his word? Ah no, my little lady, he keeps only those words that suit him.”
“Can you say that Edward is any the better?” she retorted. “Has he respected my father or rewarded him?” Her dark eyes flashed diamond sparks of anger at Harold’s mockery.
God’s teeth, but she is going to be a beauty within a year or two, Harold thought. “The King has treated Ælfgar as he deserves, Mistress Alditha, And as for his merits? What merits would they be? None come immediately to mind.”
Again that flash of anger in her eyes, that proud toss to her head. She turned on her heel, intending to stalk away. “You dislike my father, but you have him wrong. He is a man of courage and pride, a man who cherishes his family and who weeps, still, for the Welshwoman he once had as wife.”
Her acerbic tone stung, but Harold was not one who took kindly to unjust accusations. He lunged forward and clutched her arm, answering her with the curt abruptness of the truth: “I do not dislike your father, girl, but neither do I respect him. He has the false courage of a fool and the pride of the vain. He thinks nothing of you nor your two younger brothers. He despises his second wife for her independent wealth and her good breeding. He has been disloyal to his own father. He may weep copiously for your mother, my dear, when under the eye of Gruffydd’s court, but he did not show her affection when she was his wife. I am older than you, your father’s temper has always been harsh. I never saw him treat your mother with kindness.”
Alditha attempted to prise his fingers from her arm, her eyes glaring into his, contempt matching contempt. Her anger was made the worse for knowing he spoke the truth. “My father said that those of you from Wessex were the whelps of a cur! He was right!” she snarled, piercing the skin of his hand with her fingernails.
Harold yelped, but held on. “That he probably was,” he retorted, “but it takes a cur to sniff out a cur.”
The girl swung her free arm intending to slap Harold’s face, but with the quick reaction of a fighting man he caught her wrist. Furious, she began struggling and kicking, her boot connecting several times with h
is shin. Harold held her body away from him so that her flying feet swiped ineffectually at empty air. Gods, but she was a firebrand! She had most certainly inherited the wild and dangerous nature of the Welsh from her mother. He did not know whether to tip her over his knee for a beating, or put his mouth to hers and kiss her. Were she not so young and vulnerable…by the Christ, perhaps it was time to return home to Edyth! He needed a woman.
“Your father cares only for the wealth and prestige of an earldom, naught else,” he panted, parrying another of her kicks by sidestepping. “Why else would you now be back on English soil? Why else has he already bowed his knee in homage to Edward? Yes, Leofwine, you seek me?” Harold darted a look at the young man who was approaching at a trot, his arm waving frantically, calling Harold’s name.
“Aye! The King is shouting for you, in a torrent of rage.” Leofwine, Harold’s younger brother, drew to a halt, panting slightly, his knowing grin admiring the girl struggling in Harold’s grasp. “It seems,” he continued, without taking his eyes from her, “that Edward is about to revoke the entire agreement that you and Earl Leofric have so painstakingly brokered. Gruffydd flatly refuses to cross the river, has sent a messenger to say that Edward must go to him. Our tactful king has threatened to slit that messenger’s nose and return word that he will do the same to Gruffydd for his insolence.”
Harold’s attention being occupied, Alditha took her chance and sank her teeth into his hand. Yelling, he let her go; instantly, she darted away. “My father allies to Gruffydd because the Prince of Wales is not a weakling fool like Edward. Your king will never outmatch either of them.” Then she was gone, with nothing but the call of an alarmed blackbird to mark that she had been there. And the teeth marks in Harold’s hand.
He winced, inspected the wound. She had drawn blood. “I agree with you about our king, my pretty one,” he said, then, louder, his hand cupped to his mouth, shouted after her, “but it will not be Edward who goes to war against Gruffydd! It will be me!”
“I thought you were going to kiss her,” Leofwine said, desperately attempting to keep the grin from his cheeks.
“I was,” Harold answered. “But the damn girl bit me instead.”
***
Had Edward stamped his foot, or lain down on his belly and kicked the rush-matting floor, Harold would not have been surprised. More often than not, the King behaved absurdly like a child when he was outmanoeuvred.
“I have given orders to break camp!” he shouted.
“And I have countermanded them,” Harold responded patiently.
“You cannot do that!”
“I can, I have. On your order, as your most able earl, I command the army, Sire. It is for me to judge what is prudent for the fyrd. It is not prudent to escalate a minor misunderstanding into a war.”
Almost apoplectic, Edward spluttered his rage, “Minor misunderstanding? Good God, this is nothing of the sort—it is an outright insult, sir! Outright insult!”
God’s truth, Harold thought, I see why my father was so often out of temper when returning from Edward’s court. I would rather face Gruffydd than try to persuade the King the meaning of diplomacy!
“Sire,” Earl Leofric interrupted, “it took Wessex and myself many wearisome days to bring about this peace. I have had to swallow my pride and forgive my son. In order to accommodate his reinstatement, Earl Harold’s brothers Gyrth and Leofwine have willingly surrendered Oxfordshire and Anglia that was divided between them on my son’s exile. We have all, in some way, had to concede something.”
“So I must humble myself to that upstart heathen? Is that what you imply?”
Leofric sighed. “No, Sire, that is not my meaning.” Brands of fire were twisting in his stomach. His wished his good lady Godgiva were here with her cool hands and soothing potions. Ah, not long now and he would join her in heaven where pain did not exist. His contemporaries were all gone—Siward, Godwine, Emma—and he was so weary of this turbulent life.
“Sire.” Harold took a step nearer to Edward, his hands spread. “Gruffydd is testing us. He is trying to establish how easy it would be to break this hard-won agreement, how deep he need poke with his stick. If we flounce away like blushing maidens whose modesty is compromised, what will he think of us? Will we not seem to him, to all the Welsh, as vulnerable as a nun in a brothel?”
The King did not reply. Eyeing a stool, Leofric wondered if he dare ask permission to be seated. He pressed his hand to the pain in his belly. “It will take a wise man to outmanoeuvre Gruffydd, my Lord King, and you, Sire, I am certain, possess that wisdom.”
Harold flashed the Earl a brief, grateful smile. They all wanted this thing done and finished. “Sometimes,” he said, on a wistful note, “it is the man who bends the knee first, who proves himself the stronger of mind and character, for it is he who can see the wisdom of preventing unnecessary bloodshed. Alas, such courage lives only in the hearts of the apostles and in Christ himself. No mortal man could willingly display such dignified humility.”
He held his breath…Edward’s brows had narrowed into a thoughtful frown. He moved to a small altar placed to the rear of his tent, knelt, joined his hands and bowed his head. Harold exchanged a hopeful, pleading look with Leofric…
Brusquely Edward finished his prayer, stood and commanded his cloak be brought, the ferry made ready. “I will not have it said that my pride created death and destruction. Let that epitaph fall on Gruffydd’s god—cursed pagan soul.”
***
Stunned that the King of England should so publicly discard his pride, the Welsh, on their side of the river, murmured their approval, their mutterings rising to open cheers as the ferryman poled the barge across the wide stretch of water, the King standing, benevolent and serene, in the bows.
Gruffydd’s quick wit registered their sudden admiration and silently cursed the English for this subtle manoeuvre.
“My Lord?” The Welsh messenger sent to Edward had returned, shaken but unharmed, having been rowed in a quicker, more compact coracle. He had made his way direct to his prince, spoken quietly so that only Gruffydd might hear. “Sir, Lord Harold, Earl of Wessex bids me advise you in private that the wise leader takes advantage of a chance to appear the equal of his opponent. Were you to meet the English King halfway across the river…”
Gruffydd guffawed. He had heard much of Harold of Wessex—aye, and his father before him. Both were men of courage and diplomatic skill. Still laughing, he plunged down the river bank and leapt aboard his own boat, ordering that he be rowed to meet with England halfway.
Aye, he had heard much of this man, Harold. Would, no doubt, hear much more as the seasons turned.
10
St. Omer—April 1057
Rome! Edyth could not fully believe that she had actually visited that magnificent city. Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to rest against the high back of her chair. Now that they were returned to St. Omer after their months of travelling and the children were settled into their beds, she could afford the luxury of a moment’s idleness. Her body ached and her head swam, but it was not all from travel fatigue—excitement still tumbled in her heart and mind.
“If you allow that grin to spread any the wider.” Harold said, bending down to place a lingering kiss on her lips, “your face will split in two.”
Lazily, Edyth opened her eyes. “I am blissfully content,” she answered. “I have accumulated so many wondrous memories that never again shall I want for something to think about.” She linked her arms round Harold’s neck, pulling him down closer to return his kiss. “I have not yet decided whether the best part was attending the lavish splendour of the court of the Holy Roman Empire in Cologne, spending Christmas at Regensburg with the Imperial party, or accompanying the Pope back to Rome.” Her smile was a fixed sickle shape. Once, she had never expected to travel further than her own local villages along the river Lea, now she had seen the splen
dours of these great foreign cities. She stroked her finger across the stubble that was forming across Harold’s chin, her smile fading, “stay with me and our children, Harold, We have such a great need of you.”
Perplexed at this sudden change of mood, Harold set her on to his lap, his arms winding around her waist. She was with child again, had missed her second flux; an especial son or daughter this one would be, for its making had been in Rome, Was this perhaps a reason for the unexpected distress?
“I have no intention of leaving you. What sets you thinking as such?”
Edyth laid her head against his, her own arms going about his shoulders. He was strong and dependable, Harold. Oh, he strayed to other women occasionally, when matters of official business kept him away from her bed…what vigorous man did not? The passing use of a whore, however, was different from sharing the pleasures of love. She held him tight. “I am tired.”
This would have nothing to do with that suggestion of marriage made to me by the Empress of Germany, would it? With her husband in his grave and a young son crowned in his stead, she perhaps has need of another man.”
Edyth pouted. “I have always known that one day you must make a marriage of alliance…”
Harold laughed. “She is fat, fifty, and has the temper and character of a fishwife. I have no ambition to become her bed-mate or her son’s tilting post.” Setting her to her feet, Harold patted Edyth’s backside. This guest room within the abbey was both comfortable and private, but it was Friday and the physical union of a man and woman on this fasting day was discouraged by the Church. Not that he was averse to bending the rules, but coming so recently from Rome, perhaps it was best not to flaunt his needs above those of God.
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